


The Plan

by yellow_craion



Category: Leverage
Genre: Blood and Injury, Characters Watching Doctor Who, Cuddling & Snuggling, Eliot Spencer Whump, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Eliot Spencer, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Nervous Alec Hardison, POV Alec Hardison, Protective Eliot Spencer, Stitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21619723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellow_craion/pseuds/yellow_craion
Summary: "You gotta stitch me up," Eliot proclaims, unceremoniously dropping a heavy leather bag next to the laptop.Hardison’s eyes bulge out in shock and he stands up abruptly. "Nuhuh, no way!"
Relationships: Alec Hardison & Eliot Spencer
Comments: 8
Kudos: 128





	The Plan

**Author's Note:**

> beta done by my lovely lewispanda

They are holed up in a hotel room on the top floor. That was Parker’s request - easy roof access. The guys have the rest of the evening to themselves, while she’s out doing her part of the recon.

At least, that’s the plan.

Hardison is committed to that plan. He intends to watch the latest Doctor Who episode in peace, ideally cuddled next to Eliot on the bed, after they order something off the menu. The more he thinks about this plan, the more he likes it.

To that end, he sets up his spot at the kitchenette counter and starts up the download, glad to have a decent internet connection, and proceeds to browse the menus of the local food deliveries.

He looks up from his laptop as he hears Eliot coming in from the bathroom, about to share his ideas.

"You gotta stitch me up," Eliot proclaims before Hardison can open his mouth, unceremoniously dropping a heavy leather bag next to the laptop.

Hardison’s eyes bulge out in shock and he stands up abruptly. "Nuhuh, no way!" 

He is in no way prepared for this. Eliot said he was fine, a few scrapes and bruises, nothing major. Stitches mean something definitely major!

Never mind the comfortable evening plan he was so looking forward to!

"We can’t go to the hospital with it, not this early in the con. You're good with your fingers, dude, always clicking at your keyboard. You'll be fine," Eliot says like it’s the most casual thing to ask for.

"That is NOT the same!" Hardison’s voice goes up a bit but he doesn’t care. He steps back, putting his hands up defensively. "Besides, it's not about me being fine. Stitches mean you have a damn hole in your body, El!"

Eliot shuts his eyes momentarily, his eyebrows jumping up in exasperation, barely smothering a groan. "Believe me, I can feel it," he points out. “And you can do it. Just focus and quit panicking, dammit!”

Hardison gulps. Okay. He lets out a deep shaky breath.

Right. Panic gets them nowhere, that’s true.

“Where’s the…”

He’s not even done asking when Eliot takes the seat on the chair the hacker just vacated and says:

“Back of the shoulder. I’d fix it myself, but even I’m not that bendy.”

“Right,” he nods, taking more deep breaths. He walks around to take a look. Telling himself it’s no big deal, he glances at the general area and does a full body flinch so bad he practically jumps on the spot.

“Fuck!”

There’s still blood. Eliot clearly tried to clean the wound but there’s blood smeared all over his shoulder and, the worst part, it’s still oozing out. It’s slow, barely there but still seeping out.

“Hardison.”

The calm voice saves the hacker from the panic spiral.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“I get it’s not ideal,” Eliot assures and dammit, he’s bleeding! He has no right to be giving him that soft patient look that makes Hardison’s insides mushy at a moment like that! But try as he might, Hardison can’t find it in himself to be upset. Not at him; at his condition - yes, very much so. But not at him.

Hardison shrugs. What is he supposed to say?  _ Yes, you bleeding out is the opposite of ideal, sheesh! _

“I left the antiseptic and sewing kit and all else you need on top, so you won’t have to dig around too much.”

Good, he thinks. The fewer reasons to freak out, the better; and the supplies in Eliot’s so called first aid kit are extensive and the mere memory of seeing the contents make Hardison think about bad things that are best left not thought of.

So called, because it’s far beyond first aid. By Hardison’s estimation there’s enough scary crap in there to perform field surgery twice over! Granted, his estimation in that particular department is not exactly reliable, but the point stands. One look in there could be enough for some obscenely graphic nightmares.

“Actually, here,” Eliot opens the bag himself and with the uninjured arm, digs out a box of gloves, a small bottle, a plastic wrapped syringe, some dressing, and the dreaded sewing kit.

Silently, Hardison wonders why he can’t just call it suturing or something because the word just fits, it properly reflects the morbid absurdity of what he’s about to do. Briefly he pictures a stitched flower in place of a bullet wound somewhere on the hitter’s back, and has to stop himself from laughing.

_ Get a grip, man. _

“Wash your hands,” Eliot says with a blank expression, tearing the wrapper off the syringe and picking up the little bottle of liquid.

Truthfully, Hardison isn’t sure it’s absolutely necessary, since the gloves are out and he plans to wear them. He doesn’t protest though, figuring he may as well - better that than watching Eliot fill the syringe.

He makes quick work of that and by the time he’s back, Eliot’s waiting for him, his face determined and not showing a trace of emotion.

“Want me to turn the heating up?” He comes up slowly; having the wound exposed and in his line of vision is less of a shock now, but still not fun.

“Nah, I’m good.” Eliot looks up with a soft expression. “You ready to do this?”

“Not like I have much choice, do I?”

“True,” he shrugs, then winces. “Put the gloves on. This,” he indicates the syringe, “is the anesthetic. You need to put the needle in, at a right angle, uh…” Eliot feels around his shoulder with the other hand. “Here and on the opposite side. Half and half, yeah?”

Hardison nods, when the hitter pauses.

“And while it’s taking effect, I’m gonna explain what you need to do. Unless you somehow know how to do it already,” he lifts one eyebrow up, but the hacker just shakes his head vehemently.

He smooths his palms down Eliot’s bare arms in a soft caress, before grabbing the cotton pads to clean up the area with a small spray of antiseptic left out for that purpose. He takes his time, trying to be both gentle and methodical.

Holding up a syringe is a foreign feeling. He touches a spot with one hand, “here?” and when Eliot nods he puts the needle in, carefully and slowly.

Other than the slow deliberate breathing, Eliot is still like a statue. It makes things easier, but the hacker can’t help the pang of regret thinking how their hitter is so good at that. So good at taking pain and enduring.

Once he’s done with the anesthetic, Hardison puts the empty syringe to the side with the bloodied pads in the trash pile of used supplies.

In the end, while Eliot’s instructions are pretty detailed, Hardison still decides to find some reference online in a quick search, then shows for confirmation that this is what he’s actually talking about.

“Yeah, just like that.”

He shudders. “Okay, then.”

“Go as slow as you need, no rush.”

Hardison leans in close, with a bent needle in one hand, and puts the other one near the wound. He rubs soft semi circles into Eliot’s skin, careful not to pull on it. Then he remembers the anaesthetic - he probably can’t even feel much anymore.

They’ve been over it but he still wants to check in.

“In on top, thread. In on bottom, then tie it up and cut and repeat. Yes?”

“Yeah,” Eliot says. “You can start. It’s pretty numb already.”

And so in he goes. Knowing Eliot can’t feel the stab of the needle or the pull on his skin is a comfort and after initial hesitation, it goes surprisingly smoothly. At least he thinks so. Once the first suture is complete, the stress drains a little and Hardison can focus on the repetitive movements more than what they actually mean.

They fall silent for a while, and he makes a point to mimic Eliot’s measured breaths, calming down even further.

“You okay, man?” Eliot asks unexpectedly.

“Ye-yeah,” Hardison frowns. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?”

“Eh, this is part of my job. I usually do this myself, so I don’t really… I guess it’s my normal. I know it’s not yours,” his voice is soothing, despite the meaning behind his words. “You got me worried for a moment…”

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly.

“Don’t be. It should be shocking. It should make you freak out. It means you don’t have to face the blood and gore and the violence on a daily basis and that should be a good thing. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

Hardison nods mutely and saves that for later to think about. For now, he figures it’s a good time to lighten the mood a bit.

“So, I was thinking,” he mutters, while tying another knot. “After this? How about we order something in and watch new Who? New Doctor and all, so that would be a good point for you to jump in…”

The hitter hums agreeably. “Sounds like a plan.”

They share a quick smile over his shoulder.

It’s several hours later, when Parker sneaks in through the window and finds them in bed; Doctor Who on the screen of the laptop between them, voice low, and Eliot asleep on Hardison’s shoulder.

  
  
  
  



End file.
